


you can tremble, honey; i won’t tell

by princelogical



Series: Sanders Sides Misc. Work [30]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kind of violent metaphors, POV Second Person, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 16:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15644604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princelogical/pseuds/princelogical
Summary: You try to call him the villain in your head. You paint him with blood and cruelty but his concern bleeds through and his hands drip with some form of rough kindness that you don’t understand. Those hands are grabbing at yours, squeezing tightly. Eyes you’ve demonized look into yours and pick apart your soul and retrieve long-suppressed oceans of misery.





	you can tremble, honey; i won’t tell

It’s ten minutes past three o’clock when you arrive at the living room, fashionably late as you’d like to call it. Logan would call it irresponsibility. Virgil would call it ridiculous. Patton would call it excusable. You call it pathetic. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic, absolutely _pathetic_.

You call it pathetic before you arrive, swiping on concealer that’s thick as clay. You bandage the cracks in your skin and plaster on your smile. You take your empty hands and burst into the living room where Thomas waits expectantly for ideas you don’t have. You sing loudly upon your entrance then lie cheerfully about a dragon witch eating your papers with video ideas.

Logan rolls his eyes and Patton hides disappointment with a gentle smile. Thomas assures you that it’s okay and that as long as you have them re-written by the end of the week, everything should be fine. You don’t tell him that you don’t think you can come up with anything worthwhile by the end of the week, let alone re-write papers which never existed in the first place. You just smile and nod as Virgil watches on with a glare in your direction.

After everyone’s cleared out, you stand alone in the living room until Virgil pops right back, arms crossed.

“Didn’t we just go over lying, Roman?”

You scowl. “I don’t have time for this, Virgil.”

“Oh, you sure do,” he says.

“Shut up,” you hiss out. “I don’t need you making me feel worse than I already do.”

“I’m not here to make you feel worse,” Virgil grumbles. “I… Look. You just seemed upset about something.”

“I couldn’t come up with any decent ideas this week,” you snap. “Is that what you want to hear?”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. So what if you didn’t come up with any ideas?”

“You know better than that,” you say. “You’re Anxiety. If I don’t come up with any ideas, Thomas has no video. No video, no-”

“Don’t go down that road,” Virgil says. You can recognise the underlying panic in his voice.

“I’m sorry.” You mean it.

“Don’t sweat it.”

“I’m just… I’m supposed to be… _better_ than this.”

Virgil rolls his eyes again. “You don’t have to be any better than what you are, Princey.”

You try to call him the villain in your head. You paint him with blood and cruelty but his concern bleeds through and his hands drip with some form of rough kindness that you don’t understand. Those hands are grabbing at yours, squeezing tightly. Eyes you’ve demonized look into yours and pick apart your soul and retrieve long-suppressed oceans of misery.

Crying. You’re crying. Virgil hands you a pack of Kleenexes wrapped in faded plastic. You take them with unstable hands, tearing them open, only crying harder as you rip them apart. Why are you like this? Why are you so dramatic, so stupid, so worthless, so _pathetic_?

Virgil’s looking at you with something strange in his eyes. Something sad. Something sympathetic. Something _understanding_.

“You don’t have to tear up my tissues,” he says. He smiles hesitantly. “They’re the only ones I’ve got.”

That makes you feel worse but you force yourself to laugh through the anguish. “Of course. You’ve never been good at…” Shoot. No witty comeback. You’re really off your game.

“Hey, look. I know we don’t get along well, right? But listen, dude, I’m not… I’ll keep whatever you tell me to myself. And I’m a shit person but I’m a decent listener, okay? You can tell me what’s up... Not the condensed version. If you want.” His shoulders are hunched, hands stuffed in his pockets as he chews at his lip.

“I just…” You what? “I want…” _What_? Why can’t you just spit it out? “I want too much,” you finally choke out.

“We all do,” Virgil says. He shrugs. “We’re only human.” Then he snickers. “Well. Not really quite human. But whatever.”

You scrub at your eyes and give a half-smile. “Maybe we can… just. Sit. For a little bit.”

Virgil raises an eyebrow. “You wanna sit still?”

“I said nothing about sitting still,” you say. “Just that we’ll sit.”

Virgil barks out a laugh and then hits the ground before you can blink. He crosses his legs and looks up at you expectantly. You sit across from him; he smiles.

“Roman? Breathe. It’s okay.”

You do and it comes out like a gasp and you’re crying all over again. Apparently, Virgil was lying about the tissues because he’s handing you another packet. These, you don’t tear. You wipe your eyes with trembling hands and Virgil stares the entire time. His expression remains collected, surprisingly.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m pathetic.”

Virgil rolls his eyes. “Shut up.”

“But-”

“Shut up.”

You do.

“You’re allowed to be upset,” Virgil says. “What was it I said? What you’re feeling isn’t stupid or-”

“That doesn’t apply to me,” you say instantly on instinct.

Virgil glares. “Yes, it does. It absolutely does.”

You don’t have the energy to argue. “I can’t come up with any ideas. Nothing good, anyway. I think I’m broken.”

“You’re not broken, Roman,” Virgil says softly. “You’re just… in a shitty spot right now. And it sucks. But… It’s not forever.”

“It does suck,” you admit with a watery laugh.

“It sure does,” Virgil says like he knows exactly what you’re talking about. He probably does.

You take a deep breath and wipe your eyes one more time. “Thank you.”

Virgil nods in response then scoots over so he’s next to you and bumps your shoulder playfully. “Wanna scroll through Tumblr with me for a bit? It helps me calm down sometimes after… yeah.”

An insult seeping in bitter poisonous rejection sits on your tongue to hurl out of self-preservation and fear of vulnerability. Virgil would probably understand in some messed up way and would forgive you. Somehow, the idea of that makes your stomach sick. Instead, you swallow and nod. You scoot closer to Virgil to peer down at his screen.

The hesitant smile he tries to hide is proof that you’ve finally done something right.  

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not projecting, you’re projecting.


End file.
